Random Thoughts in a semi-poetic form
It's another winter,
if you can call it that here.
Balmy seventy-degree weather,
cool breezes.
So then why do I feel so cold inside?
I could die today.
Would you care?
Would anyone?
Sure, my funeral would have
throngs in attendance.
I have no doubts about that.
But what about the next day?
Or the one after that?
Would anyone think of me?
I think that, perhaps,
I could count those who would mourn
for so many days, weeks, months, even years,
on the fingers of one hand.
If I'm lucky.
It's times like these I could use a cold beer,
maybe a bottle of wine.
Fuck it, just hand me a handle
and I'll be stupefied till dawn rises
and my head drops
down towards the porcelan god.
I would bow to you, oh lord,
but today is work.
Tomorrow, community service.
Maybe tomorrow night?
No, I have to remain strong.
That's what I'm told, anyway.
Alcohol is a demon.
That demon is my best friend.
Strong for what?
I question that all the time now.
What is the point of being the pillar,
when the ceiling you hold up shelters no one?
My dog would have mourned, I'd like to think,
but that's not her job now, it's mine.
My exes? My family?
What family? They pretend not to know me.
I'm the black stain on their white-washed waspiness.
My colleagues? What am I to them?
A friendly face, a hard worker?
These things don't get you to be mourned.
And yet, why desire their mourning?
Would it not be better they did not?
Shall I spare others the task of the funeral?
Shall I keep you from feeling the sting
that mortally wounds you every time you realize it's there,
like an uncurable venerial disease?
Don't mind me, I ramble.
Everyone feels empty inside
at least from time to time.
That's what I've been told, anyways.
I've been told many things,
who knows if I should take it all at face value.
It could be that the value of words
are as well-backed as a dollar bill,
but we all know the doctrine of the dollar,
false as Molech.
For now, I keep stepping forward,
because that's all I know to do.
Perhaps minutes from now, hours further,
or even days ahead,
my sense of purpose will return to me,
as it always does.
But for now,
I taste the bitter medicine of loneliness,
but only for now.